


the Storyteller

by BetweenLines55



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Colony!America, FACE Family, Historical References, M/M, September 11 Attacks, Storyteller!England, World War II, colony!Canada, implied FrUK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 21:33:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1526555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenLines55/pseuds/BetweenLines55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's one in every family. A Storyteller. England just happens to be one, and here's why.</p><p>Or, a brief history on England and his storytelling throughout the ages. From colonized America to September 11, England has always been there with a story on the tip of his tongue. </p><p>Taken as a prompt from Monica Wood's, "The Pocket Muse 2"</p>
            </blockquote>





	the Storyteller

England had told quite a lot of stories in his day. Hell, he’d _lived_ some incredible stories in his day, as most Storyteller’s tend to do. He was one of the swashbuckling pirates on the high seas that J. M. Barrie penned in _Peter Pan_. He’d been a knight in shining armor in Thomas Malory’s _Le Morte d’Arthur_. And more than once had he played his part as a star-crossed lover, the trope that Shakespeare had made famous with _Romeo and Juliet_.

In other words, he had plenty of material to draw from if he ever needed to spin someone a tale.

He supposed it had really started with his beloved Bess and her love of the theatre. He’d sit in London proper outside the taverns and the theatres with the bards and the minstrels and the poets and _listen_. After all, there was so much going on all around the country—it was the height of the English Renaissance.

And sooner rather than later, England had been sent across an ocean and America came along. The blond boy carried a strange, native accent and a tendency for trouble. He, even as a little boy no higher than England’s waist, had suddenly become the hero of great and epic adventures. Maidens were rescued by “Sir Alfred”, the bravest and strongest knight in all the land, who battled a great green dragon with evil intentions, usually by the name of “Iggy.” (Perhaps that should have been England’s first clue that America was destined for bigger things than being a British colony across the ocean to be ruled for afar. Then again, some were just born for bigger things. Even in all of his years, England hadn’t been able to outwit Fate. Yet.)

America’s stories were loud and grand affairs. They spanned multiple bedtimes, curled together with the testy Bay Colony weather beating down on them from outside their snug little house. For the times that England could not be there, the stories found their homes in the margins of letters, waiting weeks at sea to be read.

Though eventually, America grew past England’s fairy tales. His eyes became closed to the magic they had once been able to see. Manifest Destiny and all that seemed a comparable adventure to the once England had once created for him.

England’s dear Canada, though, was a different story all together. Quite literally, in fact. Undoubtedly sure it was the frog’s fault, England soon realized that former New France was a hopeless romantic. England’s evenings with Canada were spent wrapped in blankets in front of a roaring fir as the older nation recounted tales of two star-crossed lovers (even at the time named Arthur and Francis) in fair Paris where he laid his scene. Matthew positively gobbled up the stories, and even the tales England had of far off places and things so fantastic they turned your head ‘round.

His dear, dear, Matthew. Canada had always been one of the hardest listeners to lose.

Of course, Canada’s papa, the frog, was tricky. France was too smart, too cultured, and too _old_ quite simply for outlandish fairy tales and happy endings. One got to be when one was their age. Besides, more often than not, when England had to speak with France, they usually weren’t talking in prose. A memory of France and storytelling that would forever stick in England’s mind took place in late summer of 1944.

They had finally found him, France, holed up in his Paris home under heavy Nazi guard. France, when finally transported in friendly English territory, and more importantly back to England’s care, had been in poor shape. Half-starved, half out of his mind, France was given immediate medical attention. England had found himself spending many of the following nights sitting nearby or curled up against a comatose France, talking to the other so he wouldn’t end up _screaming_. These stories that fell past England’s lips were a bit more autobiographical depictions of what he had done that day, or how the boys were doing, or how the war was going for the Allied Forces. France never said anything (as coma patients do) but having a real, breathing France to have to talk to make England’s, _Arthur’s_ , heart a little less heavy and his half-scared, half-relieved sobs a little less lonely.

(France would never know of this dark time, for England wouldn’t be able to find it within himself to tell the other. However, France _would_ know of the time after that hospital bed on the outskirts of Paris, full of newly diagnosed PTSD and a heavy, new found dislike of war films.)

But a Storyteller’s job was never over, was it? Those gifted with the ability had the talent of being at the wrong place at the right time. September 11, 2001 came like hellfire during once standard-protocol UN meeting. England, quickly followed by Canada and France, was over to the collapsed form of America in seconds. Faintly, England remembered France calling for an ambulance and Germany shouting emergency protocol orders, but what really stood out was the blood stains blossoming on America’s chest. The fairly young country had a glassy look in his baby-blue eyes—hazy and unfocused, as if he was trying to see something that wasn’t quite there.

“Hey, there,” America said, unsure smile decorating his face.

“Shh,” England soothed, “don’t strain yourself, it’ll be all right, everything will be all right.”

England cradled America’s head in his lap, helping Canada and France to put pressure on the wounds. Truly, it was hard to kill a nation, but the likes of this hadn’t been seen before.

“H-hey, Dad?” America said, almost down to a whisper. England did his best to swallow back a sob. He’d not heard that endearment in a very long time, certainly not from America. England pressed a kiss to his baby’s sweaty forehead.

“What is it, poppet? Anything you need.”

“Would—” America struggled, coughing up blood and staining his teeth red, “would you tell me a story? Like when I was little. Knights and dragons.”

England was in tears by now. France, who had heard the hurting nation’s request, looked at England with an expression on his face that the Englishman couldn’t quite read. Either way, he did his best not to break down and sob as he began, “A-All right, let’s see. _Once upon a time, there was a brave, handsome knight named Sir Alfred and he was destined from the start for great things…_ ”

The story, both for Sir Alfred and for America, ended in relative peace, but by God Almighty, England swore it had seemed like the longest tale of his life.

* * *

 

Of course the story of England and more precisely England’s stories didn’t stop there.

Fate, the one power even England hadn’t ruled in one form or another (yet), worked in funny ways. Sealand, otherwise known as Peter Kirkland, was staying with his youngest-older-brother as his parents took a much needed spa retreat in Southern Iceland.

Sealand had a problem with monsters under the bed, a problem that invaded his dreams, causing a violent wakeup call circa 2 o’clock in the morning. It was the kind of violent, screaming wakeup that had one’s older brother out of bed in an instant with a hand gun poised and ready to shoot.

“Peter! Peter are you…oh. Petey, did you have a nightmare?” England asked, quickly coming to the realization that the boy wasn’t being attacked physically in anyway. The taller man rubbed a hand over his face, trying to get the sleep out of his eyes.

A hesitant nod and the gun was placed on the bedside table. England sat down at the edge of Sealand’s bed, tucking the boy back in.

“Jerk-Arthur?” the boy asked as England smoothed the bed covers and retrieved Peter’s teddy from the floor.

“Yes, lad?”

“Would-would you tell me a story? Like my mummy and daddy do?”

England smiled. The other phenomena around Storytellers was that they also had the ability to be at the _right_ place at the _right_ time, which was all around much more agreeable.

“I’d be happy to,” England said, pulling the only chair in the room to the side of the bed. “ _Long ago there was a great sea captain that went by the name of Peter Kirkland and he…_ ”

…was ultimately part of the great arc that every Storyteller weaves at one point or another.

One pirate, knight and star-crossed lover at a time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Peter Pan", "Le Morte d'Arthur" and "Romeo and Juliet" are all relatively well known pieces of British literature. 
> 
> The English Renaissance took place during the time of Queen Elizabeth I and Shakespeare.
> 
> The "Bay Colony" is shorthand for "the Massachusetts Bay Colony" which is now known as just Massachusetts.
> 
> Manifest Destiny was an American ideal that said that it was God's will for America to stretch from sea to shining sea no matter the cost. It was the driving force of the West and colonization.
> 
> Canada, before being named Canada, was called New France (so creative, I know).
> 
> "In fair Paris where he laid his scene" is a tribute to the prologue of "Romeo and Juliet" which is very good and you should go read it.
> 
> Paris was liberated from Nazi siege in August of 1944.
> 
> And I'm sure everyone can draw their own conclusions on Sept. 11.


End file.
